Third Girl (15 page)

“T
oday I have much to do,” Hercule Poirot announced as he rose from the breakfast table next morning and joined Miss Lemon. “Inquiries to make. You have made the necessary researches for me, the appointments, the necessary contacts?”

“Certainly,” said Miss Lemon. “It is all here.” She handed him a small briefcase. Poirot took a quick glance at its contents and nodded his head.

“I can always rely on you, Miss Lemon,” he said.
“C'est fantastique.”

“Really, Monsieur Poirot, I cannot see anything fantastic about it. You gave me instructions and I carried them out. Naturally.”

“Pah, it is not so natural as that,” said Poirot. “Do I not give instructions often to the gas men, the electricians, the man who comes to repair things, and do they always carry out my instructions? Very, very seldom.”

He went into the hall.

“My slightly heavier overcoat, Georges. I think the autumn chill is setting in.”

He popped his head back in his secretary's room. “By the way, what did you think of that young woman who came yesterday?”

Miss Lemon, arrested as she was about to plunge her fingers on the typewriter, said briefly, “Foreign.”

“Yes, yes.”

“Obviously foreign.”

“You do not think anything more about her than that?”

Miss Lemon considered. “I had no means of judging her capability in any way.” She added rather doubtfully, “She seemed upset about something.”

“Yes. She is suspected, you see, of stealing! Not money, but papers, from her employer.”

“Dear, dear,” said Miss Lemon. “Important papers?”

“It seems highly probable. It is equally probable though, that he has not lost anything at all.”

“Oh well,” said Miss Lemon, giving her employer a special look that she always gave and which announced that she wished to get rid of him so that she could get on with proper fervour with her work. “Well, I always say that it's better to know where you are when you are employing someone, and buy British.”

Hercule Poirot went out. His first visit was to Borodene Mansions. He took a taxi. Alighting at the courtyard he cast his eyes around. A uniformed porter was standing in one of the doorways, whistling a somewhat doleful melody. As Poirot advanced upon him, he said:

“Yes, sir?”

“I wondered,” said Poirot, “if you can tell me anything about a very sad occurrence that took place here recently.”

“Sad occurrence?” said the porter. “Nothing that I know of.”

“A lady who threw herself, or shall we say fell from one of the upper storeys, and was killed.”

“Oh,
that.
I don't know anything about that because I've only been here a week, you see. Hi, Joe.”

A porter emerging from the opposite side of the block came over.

“You'd know about the lady as fell from the seventh. About a month ago, was it?”

“Not quite as much as that,” said Joe. He was an elderly, slow-speaking man. “Nasty business it was.”

“She was killed instantly?”

“Yes.”

“What was her name? It may, you understand, have been a relative of mine,” Poirot explained. He was not a man who had any scruples about departing from the truth.

“Indeed, sir. Very sorry to hear it. She was a Mrs. Charpentier.”

“She had been in the flat some time?”

“Well, let me see now. About a year—a year and a half perhaps. No, I think it must have been about two years. No. 76, seventh floor.”

“That is the top floor?”

“Yes, sir. A Mrs. Charpentier.”

Poirot did not press for any other descriptive information since he might be presumed to know such things about his own relative. Instead he asked:

“Did it cause much excitement, much questioning? What time of day was it?”

“Five or six o'clock in the morning, I think. No warning or anything. Just down she came. In spite of being so early we got a crowd almost at once, pushing through the railing over there. You know what people are.”

“And the police, of course.”

“Oh yes, the police came quite quickly. And a doctor and an ambulance. All the usual,” said the porter rather in the weary tone of one who had had people throwing themselves out of a seventh-storey window once or twice every month.

“And I suppose people came down from the flats when they heard what had happened.”

“Oh, there wasn't so many coming from the flats because for one thing with the noise of traffic and everything around here most of them didn't know about it. Someone or other said she gave a bit of a scream as she came down, but not so that it caused any real commotion. It was only people in the street, passing by, who saw it happen. And then, of course, they craned their necks over the railings, and other people saw them craning, and joined them. You know what an accident is!”

Poirot assured him he knew what an accident was.

“She lived alone?” he said, making it only half a question.

“That's right.”

“But she had friends, I suppose, among the other flat dwellers?”

Joe shrugged and shook his head. “May have done. I couldn't say. Never saw her in the restaurant much with any of our lot. She had outside friends to dinner here sometimes. No, I wouldn't say she was specially pally with anybody here. You'd do best,” said Joe,
getting slightly restive, “to go and have a chat with Mr. McFarlane who's in charge here if you want to know about her.”

“Ah, I thank you. Yes, that is what I mean to do.”

“His office is in that block over there, sir. On the ground floor. You'll see it marked up on the door.”

Poirot went as directed. He detached from his briefcase the top letter with which Miss Lemon had supplied him, and which was marked “Mr. McFarlane.” Mr. McFarlane turned out to be a good-looking, shrewd-looking man of about forty-five. Poirot handed him the letter. He opened and read it.

“Ah yes,” he said, “I see.”

He laid it down on the desk and looked at Poirot.

“The owners have instructed me to give you all the help I can about the sad death of Mrs. Louise Charpentier. Now what do you want to know exactly, Monsieur”—he glanced at the letter again—“Monsieur Poirot?”

“This is, of course, all quite confidential,” said Poirot. “Her relatives have been communicated with by the police and by a solicitor, but they were anxious, as I was coming to England, that I should get a few more
personal
facts, if you understand me. It is distressing when one can get only official reports.”

“Yes, quite so. Yes, I quite understand that it must be. Well, I'll tell you anything I can.”

“How long had she been here and how did she come to take the flat?”

“She'd been here—I can look it up exactly—about two years. There was a vacant tenancy and I imagine that the lady who was leaving, being an acquaintance of hers, told her in advance that she was giving it up. That was a Mrs. Wilder. Worked for the BBC.
Had been in London for some time, but was going to Canada. Very nice lady—I don't think she knew the deceased well at all. Just happened to mention she was giving up the flat. Mrs. Charpentier liked the flat.”

“You found her a suitable tenant?” There was a very faint hesitation before Mr. McFarlane answered:

“She was a satisfactory tenant, yes.”

“You need not mind telling me,” said Hercule Poirot. “There were wild parties, eh? A little too—shall we say—gay in her entertaining?”

Mr. McFarlane stopped being so discreet.

“There
were
a few complaints from time to time, but mostly from elderly people.”

Hercule Poirot made a significant gesture.

“A bit too fond of the bottle, yes, sir—and in with quite a gay lot. It made for a bit of trouble now and again.”

“And she was fond of the gentlemen?”

“Well, I wouldn't like to go as far as
that.
”

“No, no, but one understands.”

“Of course she wasn't so young.”

“Appearances are very often deceptive. How old would you have said she was?”

“It's difficult to say. Forty—forty-five.” He added, “Her health wasn't good, you know.”

“So I understand.”

“She drank too much—no doubt about it. And then she'd get very depressed. Nervous about herself. Always going to doctors, I believe, and not believing what they told her. Ladies do get it into their heads—especially about that time of life—she thought that
she had cancer. Was quite sure of it. The doctor reassured her but she didn't believe him. He said at the inquest that there was nothing really wrong with her. Oh well, one hears of things like that every day. She got all worked up and one fine day—” he nodded.

“It is very sad,” said Poirot. “Did she have any special friends among the residents of the flats?”

“Not that I know of. This place, you see, isn't what I call the matey kind. They're mostly people in business, in jobs.”

“I was thinking possibly of Miss Claudia Reece-Holland. I wondered if they had known each other.”

“Miss Reece-Holland? No, I don't think so. Oh I mean they were probably acquaintances, talked when they went up in the lift together, that sort of thing. But I don't think there was much social contact of any kind. You see, they would be in a different generation. I mean—” Mr. McFarlane seemed a little flustered. Poirot wondered why.

He said, “One of the other girls who share Miss Holland's flat knew Mrs. Charpentier, I believe—Miss Norma Restarick.”

“Did she? I wouldn't know—she's only come here quite recently, I hardly know her by sight. Rather a frightened-looking young lady. Not long out of school, I'd say.” He added, “Is there anything more I can do for you, sir?”

“No, thank you. You've been most kind. I wonder if possibly I could see the flat. Just in order to be able to say—” Poirot paused, not particularising what he wanted to be able to say.

“Well, now, let me see. A Mr. Travers has got it now. He's in the City all day. Yes, come up with me if you like, sir.”

They went up to the seventh floor. As Mr. McFarlane introduced his key one of the numbers fell from the door and narrowly
avoided Poirot's patent leather shoe. He hopped nimbly and then bent to pick it up. He replaced the spike which fixed it on the door very carefully.

“These numbers are loose,” he said.

“I'm very sorry, sir. I'll make a note of it. Yes, they wear loose from time to time. Well, here we are.”

Poirot went into the living room. At the moment it had little personality. The walls were papered with a paper resembling grained wood. It had conventional comfortable furniture, the only personal touch was a television set and a certain number of books.

“All the flats are partly furnished, you see,” said Mr. McFarlane. “The tenants don't need to bring anything of their own, unless they want to. We cater very largely for people who come and go.”

“And the decorations are all the same?”

“Not entirely. People seem to like this raw wood effect. Good background for pictures. The only things that are different are on the one wall facing the door. We have a whole set of frescoes which people can choose from.

“We have a set of ten,” said Mr. McFarlane with some pride. “There is the Japanese one—very artistic, don't you think?—and there is an English garden one; a very striking one of birds; one of trees, a Harlequin one, a rather interesting abstract effect—lines and cubes, in vividly contrasting colours, that sort of thing. They're all designs by good artists. Our furniture is all the same. Two choices of colours, or of course people can add what they like of their own. But they don't usually bother.”

“Most of them are not, as you might say, homemakers,” Poirot suggested.

“No, rather the bird of passage type, or busy people who want
solid comfort, good plumbing and all that but aren't particularly interested in decoration, though we've had one or two of the do-it-yourself type, which isn't really satisfactory from our point of view. We've had to put a clause in the lease saying they've got to put things back as they found them—or pay for that being done.”

They seemed to be getting rather far away from the subject of Mrs. Charpentier's death. Poirot approached the window.

“It was from here?” he murmured delicately.

“Yes. That's the window. The left-hand one. It has a balcony.”

Poirot looked out down below.

“Seven floors,” he said. “A long way.”

“Yes, death was instantaneous, I am glad to say. Of course, it might have been an accident.”

Poirot shook his head.

“You cannot seriously suggest that, Mr. McFarlane. It
must
have been deliberate.”

“Well, one always likes to suggest an easier possibility. She wasn't a happy woman, I'm afraid.”

“Thank you,” said Poirot, “for your great courtesy. I shall be able to give her relations in France a very clear picture.”

His own picture of what had occurred was not as clear as he would have liked. So far there had been nothing to support his theory that the death of Louise Charpentier had been important. He repeated the Christian name thoughtfully. Louise…Why had the name Louise some haunting memory about it? He shook his head. He thanked Mr. McFarlane and left.

C
hief Inspector Neele was sitting behind his desk looking very official and formal. He greeted Poirot politely and motioned him to a chair. As soon as the young man who had introduced Poirot to the presence had left, Chief Inspector Neele's manner changed.

“And what are you after now, you secretive old devil?” he said.

“As to that,” said Poirot, “you already know.”

“Oh yes, I've rustled up some stuff but I don't think there's much for you from that particular hole.”

“Why call it a hole?”

“Because you're so exactly like a good mouser. A cat sitting over a hole waiting for the mouse to come out. Well, if you ask me, there isn't any mouse in this particular hole. Mind you, I don't say that you couldn't unearth
some
dubious transactions. You know these financiers. I daresay there's a lot of hoky-poky business, and all that, about minerals and concessions and oil and all those things. But Joshua Restarick Ltd. has got a good reputation. Family
business—or used to be—but you can't call it that now. Simon Restarick hadn't any children, and his brother Andrew Restarick only has this daughter. There was an old aunt on the mother's side. Andrew Restarick's daughter lived with her after she left school and her own mother died. The aunt died of a stroke about six months ago. Mildly potty, I believe—belonged to a few rather peculiar religious societies. No harm in them. Simon Restarick was a perfectly plain type of shrewd businessman, and had a social wife. They were married rather late in life.”

“And Andrew?”

“Andrew seems to have suffered from wanderlust. Nothing known against him. Never stayed anywhere long, wandered about South Africa, South America, Kenya and a good many other places. His brother pressed him to come back more than once, but he wasn't having any. He didn't like London or business, but he seems to have had the Restarick family flair for making money. He went after mineral deposits, things like that. He wasn't an elephant hunter or an archaeologist or a plant man or any of those things. All his deals were business deals and they always turned out well.”

“So he also in his way is conventional?”

“Yes, that about covers it. I don't know what made him come back to England after his brother died. Possibly a new wife—he's married again. Good-looking woman a good deal younger than he is. At the moment they're living with old Sir Roderick Horsefield whose sister had married Andrew Restarick's uncle. But I imagine that's only temporary. Is any of this news to you? Or do you know it all already?”

“I've heard most of it,” said Poirot. “Is there any insanity in the family on either side?”

“Shouldn't think so, apart from old Auntie and her fancy religions. And that's not unusual in a woman who lives alone.”

“So all you can tell me really is that there is a lot of money,” said Poirot.

“Lots of money,” said Chief Inspector Neele. “And all quite respectable. Some of it, mark you, Andrew Restarick brought into the firm. South African concessions, mines, mineral deposits. I'd say that by the time these were developed, or placed on the market, there'd be a very large sum of money indeed.”

“And who will inherit it?” said Poirot.

“That depends on how Andrew Restarick leaves it. It's up to him, but I'd say that there's no one obvious, except his wife and his daughter.”

“So they both stand to inherit a very large amount of money one day?”

“I should say so. I expect there are a good many family trusts and things like that. All the usual City gambits.”

“There is, for instance, no other woman in whom he might be interested?”

“Nothing known of such a thing. I shouldn't think it likely. He's got a good-looking new wife.”

“A young man,” said Poirot thoughtfully, “could easily learn all this?”

“You mean and marry the daughter? There's nothing to stop him, even if she was made a ward of Court or something like that. Of course her father could then disinherit her if he wanted to.”

Poirot looked down at a neatly written list in his hand.

“What about the Wedderburn Gallery?”

“I wondered how you'd got onto that. Were you consulted by a client about a forgery?”

“Do they deal in forgeries?”

“People don't deal in forgeries,” said Chief Inspector Neele reprovingly. “There
was
a rather unpleasant business. A millionaire from Texas over here buying pictures, and paying incredible sums for them. They sold him a Renoir and a Van Gogh. The Renoir was a small head of a girl and there was some query about it. There seemed no reason to believe that the Wedderburn Gallery had not bought it in the first place in all good faith. There was a case about it. A great many art experts came and gave their verdicts. In fact, as usual, in the end they all seemed to contradict each other. The gallery offered to take it back in any case. However, the millionaire didn't change his mind, since the latest fashionable expert swore that it was perfectly genuine. So he stuck to it. All the same there's been a bit of suspicion hanging round the gallery ever since.”

Poirot looked again at his list.

“And what about Mr. David Baker? Have you looked him up for me?”

“Oh, he's one of the usual mob. Riffraff—go about in gangs and break up nightclubs. Live on purple hearts—heroin—Coke—Girls go mad about them. He's the kind they moan over saying his life has been so hard and he's such a wonderful genius. His painting is not
appreciated.
Nothing but good old sex, if you ask me.”

Poirot consulted his list again.

“Do you know anything about Mr. Reece-Holland, MP?”

“Doing quite well, politically. Got the gift of the gab all right.
One or two slightly peculiar transactions in the City, but he's wriggled out of them quite neatly. I'd say he was a slippery one. He's made quite a good deal of money off and on by rather doubtful means.”

Poirot came to his last point.

“What about Sir Roderick Horsefield?”

“Nice old boy but gaga. What a nose you have, Poirot, get it into everything, don't you? Yes, there's been a lot of trouble in the Special Branch. It's this craze for memoirs. Nobody knows what indiscreet revelations are going to be made next. All the old boys, service and otherwise, are racing hard to bring out their own particular brand of what they remember of the indiscretions of others! Usually it doesn't much matter, but sometimes—well, you know, Cabinets change their policies and you don't want to afront someone's susceptibilities or give the wrong publicity, so we have to try and muffle the old boys. Some of them are not too easy. But you'll have to go to the Special Branch if you want to nose into any of that. I shouldn't think there was much wrong. The trouble is they don't destroy the papers they should. They keep the lot. However, I don't think there is much in that, but we have evidence that a certain Power is nosing around.”

Poirot gave a deep sigh.

“Haven't I helped?” asked the Chief Inspector.

“I am very glad to get the real lowdown from official quarters. But no, I don't think there is much help in what you have told me.” He sighed and then said, “What would be your opinion if someone said to you casually that a woman—a young attractive woman—wore a wig?”

“Nothing in that,” said Chief Inspector Neele, and added, with
a slight asperity, “my wife wears a wig when we're travelling anytime. It saves a lot of trouble.”

“I beg your pardon,” said Hercule Poirot.

As the two men bade each other good-bye, the Chief Inspector asked:

“You got all the dope, I suppose, on that suicide case you were asking about in the flats? I had it sent round to you.”

“Yes, thank you. The official facts, at least. A bare record.”

“There was something you were talking about just now that brought it back to my mind. I'll think of it in a moment. It was the usual, rather sad story. Gay woman, fond of men, enough money to live upon, no particular worries, drank too much and went down the hill. And then she gets what I call the health bug. You know, they're convinced they have cancer or something in that line. They consult a doctor and he tells them they're all right, and they go home and don't believe him. If you ask me it's usually because they find they're no longer as attractive as they used to be to men. That's what's really depressing them. Yes, it happens all the time. They're lonely, I suppose, poor devils. Mrs. Charpentier was just one of them. I don't suppose that any—” he stopped. “Oh yes, of course, I remember. You were asking about one of our MPs, Reece-Holland. He's a fairly gay one himself in a discreet way. Anyway, Louise Charpentier was his mistress at one time. That's all.”

“Was it a serious liaison?”

“Oh I shouldn't say so particularly. They went to some rather questionable clubs together and things like that. You know, we keep a discreet eye on things of that kind. But there was never anything in the Press about them. Nothing of that kind.”

“I see.”

“But it lasted for a certain time. They were seen together, off and on, for about six months, but I don't think she was the only one and I don't think he was the only one either. So you can't make anything of that, can you?”

“I do not think so,” said Poirot.

“But all the same,” he said to himself as he went down the stairs, “all the same, it is a link. It explains the embarrassment of Mr. McFarlane. It is a link, a tiny link, a link between Emlyn Reece-Holland, MP, and Louise Charpentier.” It didn't mean anything probably. Why should it? But yet—“I know too much,” said Poirot angrily to himself. “I know too much. I know a little about everything and everyone but I cannot get my pattern. Half these facts are irrelevant. I want a pattern. A pattern. My kingdom for a pattern,” he said aloud.

“I beg your pardon, sir,” said the lift boy, turning a startled head.

“It is nothing,” said Poirot.